


five springs

by slowshow



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: F/F, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 01:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11909988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowshow/pseuds/slowshow
Summary: You watch the sun latch onto her hair, the side of her face. You watch how it doesn't let go.





	five springs

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you kindly for reading.

give me a new world (you have taken the world i was.)

 

Spring, one:

 

Your feet hurt. Deep down, yes—you've been doing a lot of uphill cardio and not with appropriately fitting shoes—but on the surface as well. 

 

More realistically, someone has just dropped a load of textbooks at your feet. 

 

On your feet. 

 

The sharp pain initially spikes at your toes and runs up your ankle, radiating there and jabbing angular pressure at the base of your foot. You don't have time to get angry at this girl, the culprit. You're late for your women's studies class and you want your seat, the one precisely in the middle of the auditorium, the one you'd physically fight for. 

 

You quickly become susceptible to giving up said seat, you're inclined to, really, given your inability to lift either foot at the moment. There's no way you'll make it two buildings over. No way you'll be able to sprint; so you (quite invariably) decide on sitting further up in the auditorium today. In the crap seats. 

 

Additionally, you have an exam for said class, today.

 

You feel a certain vengeance for this girl, the miscreant, while you watch her long dark hair wrap and fall around her neck as she bends down to retrieve her books. Her death bricks.

 

"I'm so, sorry," she begs, standing to her full height, her fingers hovering over her mouth in shock. Or maybe it's grief. You're certain it's an embarrassing occasion, hurling a thirty pound pile of textbooks on a stranger, (then having to explain yourself) that is. She's blushing to her ears and you find it all—you find her, all—contrastingly beautiful, she's all bright eyes and full lips and, wow, the pain in your foot is truly thriving. 

 

You watch the sun latch onto her hair, the side of her face. You watch how it doesn't let go.

 

"I really am sorry. This happens all the time," she shakes her head, "Actually, no it doesn't, not that often but it's a recurring thing lately and, you're grimacing, you hate me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your day—" she stammers, "make you late or something."

 

You forgive her in seconds, it's the easiest thing in the world because she's still talking, still apologizing, (and making you even more late but, with the best of intentions) and what more, adorably. Her hands wrap around her books, and she looks at you, an awry expression on her face because you have yet to say a word.  
It's a wonder you didn't declare every curse word when those books hit your toes. 

 

Instead you say, "It's okay," your voice softer than usual.

 

"No, it's not." 

 

"You're right, it's not," you quip, in faux seriousness. 

 

Her eyebrows knit together only to slowly grow apart and you don't realize you're smiling until she looks at you, more fully this time, the beginning of a smile forming around her lips.

 

Spring, two:

 

"No, actually. What bothers me is that I'm not Lucy enough for you to share your writing with me. Namely, the manuscript or just," her hand curls around her forehead, "anything that you write, Lauren."

 

She's beautiful like this, angry and ardent, and unmasking how she hurts. As if you couldn't already depict it. As if it's not painted big in her eyes. 

 

You do allow Lucy to see your writing. She's not your girlfriend. And you (consciously) tend to write about your girlfriend. Camila is currently peeved about the time you spend with Lucy, especially vexed that you let Lucy borrow the duplicate of your manuscript, the piece you've been working on for months. But the thing—from every angle of the thing—is that it's a surprise. Everything you do, everything you write is for Camila.  
About Camila.

 

You scribble on post-it's at work and you ask strangers for pens, you write that one sentence down on the back of your hand, the one that sounds just right, the one you'll add to the rough copy later, when you're in bed and Camila is asleep.

 

She's bold with every rope of emotion she feels, principally with you, in the middle of the night when you're most hidden from the rest of New York City but unabashed with—unafraid of—each other. She's good at it, at avowing this slate of you and you love her, love how she's capable of unbarring these depths you try and maintain, love how amidst the distortion of you, she also allows you see through to her—to ask and to discover—and you don't have to beg. Not ever. She does so much for you, to you, to show you.

 

Like right now, her hair is falling around the side of her neck and she's wearing your gray NYU shirt, worn enough so that it hangs just below her collarbones, and her skin is still flushed from the shower she took an hour ago—cheeks glowing with it—and she looks impassioned from every angle.

 

"Are you even listening?," she asks, and you open your mouth to speak, but she goes on. "I'm not upset that you spend time with her, I know that she's always been a part of your life," she shrugs helplessly, "I'm upset that you don't share things with me."

 

You sigh, "She proofreads."

 

"Well I'm sorry," she asserts, shying away, "I'm sorry I'm not as adequate."

 

"Camila," 

 

"No. It's okay." Her voice is small. And she does this, after laying all her cards out on the table she walks away, begs for you to follow. And you do.

 

"Camila."

 

You inhale a deep breath at the sight of her, once so determined and now bruised with it; modifying herself within moments. You sometimes think she's exactly like the sky, predictable in the way that she isn't. 

 

You gently take her hand, pulling her nearer to you, and she leans into the touch but still keeps her jaw tightened. 

 

A beat. You sigh deeply, and your shoulders follow.

 

"It was a surprise. For you, and, since you so carefully ruined it," you tease, smiling crookedly, "I'll show you. I'll let you read it now."

 

Camila's entire face softens.

 

"And I'm sorry," you add.

 

"Lauren," she says, astonished. It's justifiably a whine. 

 

Spring, three:

 

You could paint—if you ever became that accomplished—Camila, the sharp moonlight spilling in from the window in the kitchen, casting shadows on her face, her nose and eyelashes and the curve of her mouth bending the light. 

 

Spring, four:

 

Camila tries mushrooms for the first time in honor of your three year anniversary (a request by you) only to spit them out and give way to a hilariously weak smile. You laugh unabashedly, satisfied, and almost choke on your dinner. 

 

Spring, five: 

 

You've come to appreciate Camila in your oversized, worn t-shirts.

 

Also: Camila, across from you while at dinner, cradling the menu, ogling the dessert section.

 

Camila, expertly gentle and patient and understanding with children. With you.

 

Camila, a horrid cook, an excellent cooking partner. Camila, leaving tender kisses behind your ear while you sprinkle salt in a pot of boiling water.

 

Camila, flailing and falling, once a week.  
She's the clumsiest person you have ever met. You occasionally tally how much time can pass without incident and Camila has yet to beat her record of six days. It's written big on the note pad taped to the refrigerator.

 

Camila, small in your arms. Warm.

 

Camila, thrown into your life at whim by some deity. Camila, giving you more than you can measure, more than you deserve. You remain to reassure her, to inspirit her despite your signature ineligibility; you love her, you love having the sky, the Spring, at hand.


End file.
